The girl was not on her pony; she was standing beside it. The pony appeared distressed, and the girl looked no whit more cheerful. With a pang to the very heart, Andy Hayes recognized a duty, and acknowledged it by a snatch at his cap. "I beg your pardon; anything wrong?" he asked. He had been interested in Vivien Wellgood the evening before, but he was much more than interested in the hunt. Still, she looked forlorn and desolate. "Would you mind looking at my pony's right front leg?" she asked. "I think he's gone lame." "I know nothing about horses, but he does seem to stand rather gingerly on his--er--right front leg. And he's certainly badly blown--worse than I am!" "We shall never catch them, shall we? It's not the least use going on, is it?" "Oh, I don't know. I know the country; if you'd let me pilot you--" "Harry Belfield was going to pilot me, but--well, I told him not to wait for me, and he didn't. You were at the meeting last night, weren't you? You're Mr. Hayes, aren't you? What did you think of the speeches?" "Really, you know, if we're to have a chance of seeing any more of the--" It was not the moment to discuss political speeches, however excellent. "I don't want to see any more of it. I'll go home; I'll risk it." "Risk what?" he asked. There seemed no risk in going home; and there was, by now, small profit in going on. She did not answer his question. "I think hunting's the most wretched amusement I've ever tried!" she broke out. "The pony's lame--yes, he is; I've torn my habit" (she exhibited a sore rent); "I've scratched my face" (her finger indicated the wound); "and here I am! All I hope is that they won't catch that poor fox. How far do you think it is to Nutley?" "Oh, about three miles, I should think. You could strike the road half a mile from here." "I'm sure the pony's lame. I shall go back." "Would you like me to come with you?" During their talk her eyes had wavered between indignation and piteousness--the one at the so-called sport of hunting, the other for her own woes. At Andy's question a gleam of welcome flashed into them, followed in an instant by a curious sort of veiling of all expression. She made a pathetic little figure, with her habit sorely rent and a nasty red scratch across her forehead. The pony lame too--if he were lame! Andy hit on the idea that it was a question whether he were lame enough to swear by: that was what she was going to risk--in a case to be tried before some tribunal to which she was amenable. "But don't you want to go on?" she asked. "You're enjoying it, aren't you?" The question carried no rebuke; it recognized as legitimate the widest differences of taste. "I haven't the least chance of catching up with them. I may as well come back with you."